Parenthood
by SKH
Summary: Alfred Pennyworth must leave Bruce Wayne to care for nine-year-old Dick Grayson, and disaster ensues.
1. Default Chapter

**__**

* * *

**_©January 2003_**

©January 2003  
Rating: PG  
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson  
Timeframe: This story follows my earlier stories "Jealousy" and "A Christmas of Beginnings" in continuity.  
Disclaimer: Characters herein are owned by DC Comics/Time Warner/AOL. No profit is realized from creation of stories based on these trademarked characters. Not to be archived without permission.  
Comments and feedback are welcome to SKHwrite@cranky-dog.com  
.

* * *

**_Parenthood_**

By SKH

* * *

  
_Part One_

Dick Grayson walked briskly down a hallway in the central classroom building of the Gotham Academy. With his backpack slung over one shoulder and his winter coat bundled under one arm, Dick rounded a corner into the main corridor.

As Dick passed other students, one boy deliberately bumped shoulders with him, breaking his preoccupied stride. "Hey, newbie... your *chauffeur's* heeerrre," the other boy taunted.

"An' he just came from a date with *your* Mom, lame-o!" Dick retorted without a backwards glance. Several other boys in the hallway laughed at the come-back as Dick kept walking. Dick looked up to see Alfred Pennyworth waiting for him. To Dick, Alfred was his and Bruce's caretaker. Alfred had worked for Bruce Wayne's family for ages, and now that Bruce had become Dick's guardian, he cared for Dick, too.

"Good afternoon, Master Dick," Alfred crisply greeted his small charge. Alfred was nattily dressed in his long driving coat and cap.

"Awfta-noon, Alfred," Dick parroted back as he reached the older man. Dick put down his backpack and slipped into his coat. Buttoned to Alfred's satisfaction, Dick picked up the backpack and followed Alfred out of the main doors and into the bitter February cold.

Nine-year-old Dick had been coming to school at the Academy for several weeks now, his first real experience in a formal classroom setting. Before he came to live with Bruce and Alfred, Dick received his schooling from his mother, who tutored him while the family traveled as aerialist performers, "The Flying Graysons," with a small circus.

Once inside the Rolls Royce Silver Shadow, Alfred and Dick headed home to Wayne Manor. "And how was your day, Master Dick, other than the altercation I witnessed in the hallway just now?" Alfred asked from the front seat.

In the backseat, Dick unsnapped his safety belt and leaned forward, the better to talk with Alfred. He was quickly, but gently, reprimanded, then grudgingly sat back and refastened his belt.

"That was Brendan Houser. He sits behind me in class. He's a rube. They're all rubes, Alfred. They don't know nuthin' about nuthin'."

Alfred eyed the youngster through the rear-view mirror. The lad seemed relatively unfazed as he delivered his worldly opinion about his schoolmates.

"And yet, I expect they may strive to use more correct grammar, Master Dick, as should you."

Dick scrunched his features into a disgusted grimace. "You know what I mean, Alfred. They're little mama's-boy rubes. They think they can get a rise outta me because I'm new at school, and because you pick me up, and they take a bus, or their moms come get them."

"I see," Alfred acknowledged. "And would you rather take the schoolbus?"

Dick shook his head. "Nah. Not 'specially. I get home faster with you." Dick looked out the window at the passing landscape. "Some of the kids ain't--"

"*Aren't*."

"--*aren't* so bad. They like that I climb the rope in gym class really fast. Other kids, though... they try to make out that they're better'n me 'cause I'm circus. They don't know nuthin'... uh, anything."

"You don't seem terribly upset by that, Master Dick," Alfred noted encouragingly.

Dick looked back at the older man. "Nope. They can't do what I do. Their parents got... um *have* lots of money, but I did my quad before a real King -- in Europe! My dad said our family always played before royalty."

"That is a legacy to be proud of, Master Dick."

"And Bruce probably has more money than all of 'em put together. But Bruce's money didn't make me the youngest flyer in the whole world to hit the quad!" Dick leaned forward, loosening his seat belt until he could almost rest his elbows on the back of the seat in front of him. "Will Bruce be home soon, Alfred?"

"Master Bruce should leave his office at 3:30, as per his new schedule."

Some weeks before, Bruce Wayne had taken definite steps toward reducing the amount of time he spent at Wayne Enterprises by hiring a new Chief Operating Officer. Since then, Bruce had been coming home earlier in order to spend more time with Dick.

Arriving at Wayne Manor several minutes later, the major-domo repeated his daily instructions to Dick to go upstairs, change out of his school uniform, and do his homework.

"Aww, Alfred," Dick protested, "can I just go outside for a little while?"

"'May' I just go out..." Alfred corrected his charge, hanging up the boy's coat in the foyer's closet.

"*May* I just go outside for a little while? We didn't have P.E. today because they were doing something to the gym floor, and that kid Brendan coughed and hacked all over the back of my neck all day in class. I just gotta go outside and *move*!"

Alfred looked at Dick's upturned, expectant face. "Very well," he conceded. "One hour outside. Dress warmly, and wear your jacket, gloves, and hat."

"Thanks, Alfred!" Dick shouted as he raced up the grand staircase, bound for his room.

The boy's departing voice echoed through the halls, competing with an impatiently ringing telephone. Alfred sighed lightly and walked to the antique lowboy wall table. "Wayne Manor," he curtly answered. "Yes, this is he..." Alfred's face took on a concerned expression. He listened seriously, then closed his eyes and brought his hand to his temple.

Alfred Pennyworth, who seldom took the time to sit down on the job, slowly sank onto the chair next to the table.

* * *

Dick met Bruce at the estate's front gate, smiling broadly as he popped a wheelie on his bike.

"Race ya!" Dick called out as Bruce rolled down the Jag's window.

"I don't think so, chum," Bruce contradicted with a barely suppressed half smile. "Did you finish your homework?"

Dick made a sour face. "Not yet. Alfred let me come outside 'cause I was stuck in my stuffy, crummy classroom all day."

"Sounds fair to me," Bruce agreed. Dick was adjusting surprisingly well to the confinement of a regimented school schedule as well as to his responsibilities outside of class. Bruce could afford him a little break from his routine. "I'll drive slowly, and we can ride back to the house together."

"You kidding? Eat my dust!" Dick laughed, and he took off on the bike, leaving his mentor behind.

* * *

Bruce pulled the Jaguar into its space in the Wayne Manor garage as Dick was putting his bicycle away. Bruce noted the bright flush on Dick's cheeks as he helped the boy out of his jacket. "Let's see if Alfred has some hot chocolate ready, and then you need to finish your school work before dinner."

Indeed, they found a thermos of hot chocolate in the kitchen, but no Alfred. A foil-covered baking dish was on the counter, with a note to put it into the oven and bake at 350 degrees for 25 minutes.

"I guess Alfred must have plans or something, chum," Bruce commented as he poured the boy a mug of the hot drink. "Here you go."

"Thanks, Bruce," said Dick, reaching for his mug.

Bruce pressed a button on the intercom panel on the kitchen wall. "Alfred? Dick and I are in the kitchen. Are you forcing us to "bach" it alone tonight?" Bruce returned Dick's smile at the helpless tone he projected. The smile faded at Alfred's reply.

"I'm in my room, Master Bruce. May I have a word with you?"

"I'm on my way." Bruce left the kitchen immediately. Dick craned to watch him leave.

When Bruce reached Alfred's room, he saw the older man zipping up a garment bag. Another suitcase sat on the floor next to the door.

"Going somewhere?" Bruce asked cautiously.

Alfred straightened up and turned to his employer. "I am, Bruce. I received word this afternoon that my cousin Lettie... my favorite cousin... passed away this morning. Her family in Devonshire would like for me to come as soon as possible."

Bruce crossed the short span of space between them and placed a hand on Alfred's arm. "I'm... I'm so sorry, Alfred. I'll have a corporate jet readied."

Alfred patted Bruce's hand. "I anticipated you would say that, sir, and took the liberty of arranging for a flight... to save time. A car will be here shortly to take me to the Wayne airstrip." He walked to his closet, took out a suit, and laid it across the bed. "I'm afraid I must leave immediately, so I need you to listen carefully while I familiarize you with details as to Master Dick's care. If you'll look in that side table there, you'll find a notepad and pen."

Over the next 15 minutes, while Alfred changed into a traveling suit, he dictated instructions to Bruce about meals, routines, and Dick's school schedule. Seating himself in a chair, Bruce wrote everything down. When he was finished, he leaned back in the chair, concern etching his face.

"Alfred... what do I do about the boy when I--"

Alfred looked pointedly at Bruce. "I would hope that you could postpone your 'crusade' until my return, Bruce. There wasn't time for me to arrange for a suitable... sitter... so *you* will have to be Master Dick's caretaker."

"But if an emergency comes up..." Bruce countered.

"You accepted the responsibility of guardianship, Master Bruce. You will have to live up to that responsibility to its fullest extent. You could always have your executive assistant locate a sitter, but then, there *is* the issue of bringing an outsider into the Manor, not to mention your unorthodox hours, to consider."

The ringing of the telephone interrupted their discussion. Alfred answered, spoke briefly, then hung up. "That was the front gate. My transportation is here, Master Bruce. I must go. Please be sensitive when you explain the reason for my sudden departure to Master Dick."

"You goin' some place, Alfred?" Dick asked from just outside the door.

The two men turned to look at the boy. Alfred smiled and went to Dick, taking his hand and leading him to a padded bench in the hall. He sat for a moment while Bruce took the luggage downstairs. "Yes, I am, Master Dick. I must go to England for a few days. I need you to take care of Master Bruce for me. Can you do that? He's quite helpless in the kitchen, and I don't believe he even knows where the laundry room is."

"Can we call out for pizza?" Dick asked, his eyes lighting up hopefully.

"Yes, you may, but please do not drink an overabundance of cola," Alfred smiled. Dick grinned triumphantly, and then Alfred pulled the boy into a quick embrace. "Be a responsible young gentleman while I'm gone," he said.

"Piece of cake, Alfred!" Dick chirped. The boy fairly skipped down the stairs beside the major-domo.

Bruce and Dick stood on the portico steps and watched the car carrying their "parent" drive off down the long lane, away from Wayne Manor. Dick waved until the tail lights vanished into the growing darkness. Bruce ushered his ward inside the house and closed the door.

"I guess we should heat up that dish he left on the kitchen counter for us," Bruce said, feeling just a bit unsure about the predicament he and Dick had been left in.

"Un-uh. We can call for pizza. Alfred said!" Dick countered, pulling a telephone book out of a drawer in a side table in the foyer. "I want sausage and double cheese!" He thumbed through the yellow pages like a veteran.

"Chum, I think Alfred wanted us to have what he set out..." Bruce repeated.

"And breadsticks with marinara sauce. Those are good! Should we get some chicken wings, too, Bruce?" Dick asked as he dialed the telephone, ignoring his mentor's reluctance to obtain more preferential sustenance.

"I, uh..."

Without waiting for Bruce's answer, Dick rattled off his order to the clerk at the pizzeria and held out the phone to Bruce. "He wants to talk to a grown up. Tell 'em to hurry. Give 'em a big tip or something."

"Give me that thing," Bruce mock-growled, taking the receiver from Dick's hand.

Twenty minutes later, guardian and ward sat in front of the television eating their gooey, cheesy pie. 

* * *

At six o'clock the next morning, Bruce knocked on Dick's bedroom door. Dick had a morning workout scheduled before getting ready for school, and since Bruce had dismissed the boy from their evening workout the night before in lieu of their pizza party, he would insist on Dick getting a good session in this morning. Bruce felt the need for one himself, given the several slices of pizza he'd consumed, compounded by Batman's not having patrolled Gotham City.

"Come on, chum, time to wake up," Bruce called out. Failing to hear a response, he walked into Dick's room. The boy was still sleeping, seemingly dead to the world and buried beneath the bedcovers, with just the top part of his dark, disheveled head visible. Bruce crossed the room to the bed. He jostled Dick's shoulder. "Dick. Time to get up. Let's go, now."

With a slight squirm and a whine, Dick moaned unintelligibly.

Bruce wondered if the boy was this difficult to get out of bed every morning. "Dick, it's time to go work out now. Come on, get out of bed, get dressed, and let's get downstairs to the gym."

Dick repeated the whining groan and disappeared beneath the covers completely, leaving Bruce perplexed and a little impatient. The boy usually ran laps around him in the morning and definitely did not whine.

"Downstairs in ten minutes, Dick," Bruce called out more sternly. That got a muffled grunt, which he took for acknowledgement. He left Dick's room and headed for Wayne Manor's gym.

When Dick had not shown up after 15 minutes, Bruce mentally cancelled the workout and concentrated on getting the boy ready for breakfast and school. Taking the stairs two at a time, he returned to Dick's room to find the boy still in bed. Giving two sharp claps, Bruce loudly said, "Time to get UP, Dick! Let's GO!" He yanked the covers back, leaving the boy curled up in the middle of the bed. With another cracking clap, he repeated his order. "Up! Now!"

Dick jerked, startled by the sharp noise and the sudden cold. Groaning, he rolled over and sat up, sitting Indian-style and rubbing his eyes.

"We'll have double workout after school, since you missed this morning's," Bruce explained. "Now, up and at 'em, chum. Get washed up and dressed for school. I want you in the kitchen in fifteen minutes."

Dick crawled out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Satisfied, Bruce left the room.

Bruce followed Alfred's directions and set out a bowl of cereal with banana slices at the kitchen table. "Milk, juice... that's everything," he murmured, pouring himself a glass of orange juice. Bruce checked his watch. Late. With a sigh, he left the kitchen to track down his errant ward. He found Dick sitting on the staircase, tying his shoes.

"I can help you with your necktie, chum," Bruce offered, inspecting Dick's school uniform according to Alfred's suggested scrutiny. Dick stood up and tucked in his shirt while Bruce managed with almost too-large hands a reasonable Windsor knot in the small necktie. He finished up with an affectionate pat on the boy's shoulder.

"Let's go have breakfast," Bruce suggested, and he led the way back to the kitchen. After pouring milk into Dick's cereal bowl, Bruce left the kitchen for his den, where he made a phone call to the office. A few minutes later, he returned to find Dick's cereal uneaten, and the boy sitting with his head resting on his folded arms on the table.

"Hey, you need to eat, Dick. We have to leave soon," Bruce prodded. He went to the counter and poured a cup of coffee from the urn, took a sip, and made a sour face. "Ugh, I guess I make really bad coffee," he grumbled. Bruce poured the contents of the cup and urn down the sink. He turned back to the boy, who had not moved. Bruce had no idea Dick was so sluggish to get started in the morning. How did Alfred manage this so efficiently?

"Dick. Eat breakfast."

Dick slowly sat up and rubbed his eyes. He looked at the cereal, milk-sodden and unappealing now, and frowned. "I'm not hungry," he softly complained, turning his face to Bruce's.

Bruce looked at Dick. With sorrowful blue eyes and flushed cheeks, Bruce deemed his ward's expression as a little bit pitiful. Was it a ploy to keep them both at home, now that he was out from under Alfred's watchful eye? Determined not to be bullied as he had been the night before with the pizza issue, Bruce gathered his parental resolve together.

"It's no wonder, considering how much you ate last night. I guess you're stuck with a granola bar, then, chum. C'mon, let's go. I have a meeting at 9:00."

Bruce ushered the boy into the foyer where he retrieved their coats and Dick's backpack, which had been left on the bottom step of the staircase. Minutes later, Bruce dropped Dick off in front of the school.

"I'll see you this afternoon, Dick. Have a good day at school." Bruce waved as Dick trudged off to the main school building. Heaving a sigh of relief, the billionaire once again marveled at how Alfred managed their world so effortlessly. Turning on the public radio station, Bruce cheerfully drove away from the school, bound for Gotham City.

At 10:35, Bruce's executive assistant, Margaret, interrupted his meeting with Lucius Fox. "Mr. Wayne, I'm sorry to break in, but you have a call from Dick's school."

With a slight frown of concern, Bruce said, "I'll take it, Margaret. Transfer the call."

"Bruce Wayne here..."

"Mr. Wayne, this is Mrs. Evans, the school secretary at Gotham Academy. Your little boy, Dick Grayson, is in the nurse's office. It seems we've got a flu epidemic making its run through the student body. Dick was one of three children from his class who became ill. He vomited twice and has a fever of 101 degrees. I called your home, but... Mr. Pennyworth, the primary contact listed in Dick's records, did not answer."

"No, Mr. Pennyworth had to leave town last night to attend to a family emergency. Tell Dick to hold tight, Mrs. Evans. I'll be there as soon as I can to pick him up."

Bruce terminated that call, then dialed Leslie Thompkins, the Wayne family physician and Bruce's longtime friend. After a brief wait, he got Leslie on the line. "Leslie, Dick has come down with the flu, and Alfred left for England last night."

"I'm not surprised," the harried free-clinic physician replied, "half the city is coming down with this new strain of flu. I've got a waiting room filled with sick children. I'll phone in a couple of prescriptions to Merrill's Pharmacy at the Brentwood Marketplace. You can pick them up on your way to the school. Call me back in a few hours, and give me an update. I have to run."

Bruce stared at the phone.

Lucius Fox stood up to go back to his own office. "Looks like you have your hands full, Bruce," he smiled. "Don't worry about the office. You just go take care of that boy of yours."

Moments later, Bruce sped out of Gotham City.

* * *

[ End Part One ]


	2. Chapter 2 of 3

* * *

©January 2003  
Rating: PG  
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson  
Timeframe: This story follows my earlier stories "Jealousy" and "A Christmas of Beginnings" in continuity.  
Disclaimer: Characters herein are owned by DC Comics/Time Warner/AOL. No profit is realized from creation of stories based on these trademarked characters. Not to be archived without permission.  
Comments and feedback are welcome to SKHwrite@cranky-dog.com  


* * *

**_Parenthood_**

By SKH

* * *

  
_Part Two_

_I think that Life has spared those mortals much — and cheated them of more — who have not kept a breathless vigil by the little bed of some beloved child._

- Faith Baldwin

* * *

Bruce carried Dick and the bag of medications into the house. Once they reached Dick's room, the boy rushed into the adjoining bathroom with an anxious whine, slamming the door behind him. Bruce straightened out Dick's bed, unmade from that morning, and searched through bureau drawers for a fresh pair of pajamas. Found, Bruce tossed the pajamas onto the bed and walked to the bathroom door.

"You okay in there?" he called out.

"Go 'way!" The tearful command was punctuated by the sound of retching.

"Are you _sure_?" Bruce asked.

"Go _'way_!"

Bruce backed off, taking the bag of prescription medications out of the pocket of his suit jacket. He inspected the packages — a bottle of some kind of red syrup, a bottle of Children's Acetaminophen, and a package of some kind of blister-pack pills. Bruce opened the last package, astonished at the size of the pills. He'd be hard-pressed to swallow something that size, let alone expect a child to do so. He took out the instruction insert and read through it.

"Oh, no. No, I can't..." Bruce grumbled, horrified to discover Leslie had called in a _suppository_ medication. He whipped out his cell phone and pressed a speed dial selection.

"This is Bruce Wayne. I need to speak to Dr. Thompkins," he ordered, nearly Bat-like.

"Mr. Wayne, Leslie's with a patient. This is Ellen Garland, the P.A. Can I help you?"

"Ellen, Leslie called in some prescriptions for Dick... I can't give him a _suppository!_ It's just not... not right!"

"Mr. Wayne, I'm sure Alfred knows how to—"

"—Alfred's _not here_. He won't be back for days! I can't give him this thing, Ellen. Leslie will have to prescribe something else!"

"Mr. Wayne, is Dick vomiting?"

"Yes."

"Then he needs the suppository. Really, Mr. Wayne, it's the best way to administer the meds that will help control the vomiting. This strain of flu is pretty violent in its earlier stages. He'll be losing it from both ends. Dick needs the medications, and you need to keep him hydrated. I suggest Pedialite or one of those sports drinks with electrolytes."

"We have Gatorade."

"There you go! Mr. Wayne, I've got other patients. You can do this — just read the directions."

"But Ellen—" Bruce pocketed the phone with an exasperated sigh.

The bathroom door opened, and Dick, pale and trembling, wobbled out. Bruce helped him out of his soiled school clothes and into warm pajamas. Dick crawled into bed with a sustained moan.

"I hadda throw up in the wastebasket, Bruce," the boy said in a small, ravaged voice. "I was on the potty but hadda throw up, too."

Bruce tucked the bedcovers around the small figure. "Don't worry, chum. I'll take care of it. You rest up, and I'll go get you something to drink. I'll be right back."

After a quick search of the downstairs pantry, Bruce located the Gatorade and the first aid kit, in which he found an oral thermometer. An hour later, after Dick was asleep and fully medicated, Bruce gave the bathroom a cursory cleaning. Preferring to throw the wastebasket away in the garbage can outside, he replaced it with another from one of the guest bathrooms. As for Dick's soiled school uniform, Bruce tossed it into a plastic trash bag and placed it in the laundry room. He had no idea if it was washable or had to be dry-cleaned, but at this point, he didn't care. Dick would likely be out of school for the rest of the week anyway.

Bruce sank into the leather desk chair in his study, glancing at the clock. It was half-past noon. He leaned back, rubbing his hands over the lower half of his face. Bruce sat quietly for several minutes until his reverie was broken by the ringing of the telephone.

"Master Bruce, I wanted to check in and let you know I've made it to Devonshire. I left you a list of numbers here where I might be reached, if necessary. I trust you and Master Dick are getting along well?"

"Alfred, Dick has come down with the flu. I've never seen anything like it. It was like turning off a light switch. One minute he was running around, and the next minute he just went down!"

"Oh, my! Poor Master Dick. Have you taken him to Dr. Thompkins?"

"Leslie said she can't do anything about it except prescribe medications for his symptoms. I brought him home from school a couple of hours ago, and he's sleeping now. Poor little guy, this flu is pretty rough on him."

"Bruce, you'll just have to do the best you can. One of the real trials of parenthood is nursing a child through an illness, but I have faith in you, my boy. Oh, I must ring off now, they're calling me. I'll telephone again tomorrow."

* * *

By mid-afternoon, Bruce felt he was on top of the situation. He had called his assistant, Margaret, for advice on what to feed a sick child. To simplify things, Margaret arranged for Wayne Enterprises' catering vendor to deliver what Bruce and Dick would need to get through this crisis until Alfred returned. And although Dick woke up sick again and threw up on his sheets and P.J.'s, Bruce handled that, too. He got the boy cleaned up and moved him to his own bed. Then, Bruce swapped Dick's mattress with one from one of the guest rooms and moved Dick back into the boy's bedroom.

With another dose of meds, a little soup, and some Gatorade in the boy, Bruce dozed for an hour at Dick's bedside. When he awoke, Bruce went downstairs and called Leslie Thompkins, filling her in on their progress.

"Keep doing what you're doing, Bruce," she advised. "Try to keep Dick's fever down, keep him comfortable, and just let him sleep. He should start to show some improvement tomorrow, and a few days from now you won't know he was ever sick."

Checking in on his ward again, Bruce found the bed empty and the bathroom door closed. Moments later, Dick emerged looking weary and wasted. Bruce gave the boy a boost into the bed.

"Are you feeling any better, chum?"

Dick curled into his pillows, shaking his head and giving a wordless negative answer. "Nuh-uh."

Bruce felt Dick's forehead, not happy with the excessive warmth. Taking Dick's temperature again showed no reduction. It was still just above 102 degrees. It was also too soon for another round of medication. Bruce handed Dick the cup of Gatorade from his bedside table.

"Here. Scoot over, and drink some of this. Would you like me to tell you about some of my earlier case files? Like, when I first met the Penguin?" Bruce figured a story or two would help to ease Dick's misery. So he spent another hour with the boy curled against his chest, telling him tales of adventures from early in Batman's crime-fighting career. Bruce stopped talking when he believed that Dick had fallen asleep, and he was just about to move carefully off the bed when Dick released a mewling wail and disgorged everything he'd just drunk all over Bruce.

'At least it's all on me and not the bed this time,' the big man mentally groaned. Bruce scooped Dick up and took him back to the bathroom. He helped support his ward while the boy went through the agony of dry heaves. Then Dick spun around and climbed onto the commode, tearful from stomach cramps as the rest of the liquid in his digestive system expelled itself. Bruce wondered if he'd ever put Alfred through this kind of experience when he was this young. If he had, it was beyond his memory.

* * *

As evening fell, Dick's fever was holding steady at around 102. For the past few hours he had held down fluids. When the boy was sleeping soundly again, Bruce came downstairs and made a half-hearted effort to clean up the kitchen, tossing away the catering containers and putting dishes in the sink. Bruce stretched the kinks out of his muscles and walked to the family room. He plopped down into the recliner and picked up the television remote. Bruce scanned through the channels until he got to GNN, the Gotham News Network.

"... news crew on the scene of the explosion at Arkham Asylum. For that story, we go to Melinda Diaz."

"Thank you, Bill. Ten minutes ago, Arkham Asylum was rocked by an explosion that damaged the northeast quadrant of the complex. This section holds some of Gotham City's most dangerous criminals. Guards have managed to contain the incarcerated population, and authorities are ascertaining who, if anyone, may have escaped."

In a matter of seconds, Bruce had raced to the subterranean cavern below Wayne Manor known as the Batcave. Donning the Batman's imposing dark costume, Bruce contacted Police Commissioner James Gordon.

"I hope you're on your way, Batman," the Commissioner growled. "Everyone is accounted for except the Joker. Two guards are dead, and we believe a third was the insider who helped stage this breakout."

"I'll be there as soon as I can, Commissioner," Batman assured him.

But there was one small problem, and he was sleeping upstairs.

* * *

"Dick, I need you to wake up, chum. We're going to Dr. Leslie's clinic," Bruce said softly, lifting the sleeping boy into his arms. Dick roused and squirmed, then blinked in confusion when he saw who was holding him.

"B-Batman? Bruce? What's wrong?"

Bruce sat the more alert and questioning child on the bed. "You need to slip into these sweatpants, Dick, and the shirt, too. I'll get your coat from downstairs. And you'll need socks and shoes." Bruce disappeared, and Dick could hear his footsteps recede down the hall. Dick slid off the bed and put the sweatpants and shirt on over his pajamas. He walked unsteadily to his closet and got out a pair of slippers, then pulled some socks out of the dresser drawer. He was in the bathroom when Bruce returned with his coat. When Dick was finished, Bruce — Batman, for he had now pulled the cowl up over his head and face — helped him on with his heavy parka. Gloves and knit hat came out of the pockets and went onto the boy's hands and head.

"Okay, let's go, chum," said Batman, picking the bundled boy up. "We're going for a little ride in the Batmobile."

"The Batmobile...." Dick repeated in awe.

* * *

Entering the Thompkins Free Clinic by a private door, Batman carried Dick inside and made his way to Leslie's office. The cries of sick children in the lobby and examination rooms echoed through the clinic's halls. Batman put the boy down, saying "go sit in Dr. Leslie's chair, Dick. I'm going to tell her we're here."

Batman emerged from Dr. Thompkins' office in time to catch Ellen Garland by the arm as she walked down the hall. The startled woman gasped, then relaxed, pulling out of Batman's grip.

"Where is Dr. Thompkins?" Batman rasped, pulling Leslie's office door closed behind him.

"Exam room three. Are you injured?" she asked.

"No. I need to speak with Dr. Thompkins, though. I have a serious emergency, and I need her help."

"Okay, give us a couple of minutes. Wait in her office, and I'll tell her you're here." Ellen rushed up the hall as Batman slipped back into Leslie's office.

Dick was curled up asleep in the desk chair, resting his head — pillowed by the hood of his parka — on the chair's arm. Batman waited uneasily, monitoring police transmissions through a receiver in his cowl. The Joker's deadly trail continued into Gotham City, as the madman indiscriminately, whimsically, assassinated anyone who got in his way. Batman had an idea of where he was headed. He suspected the Joker had left a stash of money and weapons hidden in one of his secluded former lairs and was making his way into the heart of the city to reach it.

The office door opened, and a slight, silvery haired woman in a white lab coat walked in. Closing the door behind her, she surveyed the "parcel" Batman had brought her.

"Oh, no. No you don't, Bruce," Leslie Thompkins whispered harshly. "That boy is sick and needs to be home in his own bed. My staff and I are on our third straight shift, and the traffic through this clinic hasn't stopped since early this morning. This whole city's got the same flu Dick has, and some people are much worse!"

"Leslie... the Joker has escaped. There's no telling how many people he'll slaughter on his rampage. The death toll is up to four now! I _have_ to stop him!" Batman explained.

Dr. Thompkins shoved the Caped Crusader in the chest. "You have to take care of your child, Bruce. This is what parenthood is all about — making choices! Let the police worry about the Joker. That's _their_ business! _Yours_ is that little boy over there. I can't believe you dragged him out of bed to bring him down here!"

The Batman stepped forward, looming imposingly over the petite physician. Through clenched teeth, he rasped, "The police don't stand a chance. _I'm_ the one who can stop Joker from murdering innocent people."

Leslie's eyes narrowed at the Batman's deliberate attempt to intimidate her. "You listen to me, Bruce Wayne," she hissed angrily. "I stood up in court and swore that you could be a fit parent for this child. If you can't do that job, I swear to God I'll see that Dick goes to a family who can!"

"NO!" shouted Dick. He scrambled off the chair and rushed to Batman's side. "Don't say that, Dr. Leslie! Bruce is tryin' real hard! He may not be the best parent yet, but he's the best _teacher_ and the best Batman!"

Leslie looked down at the boy, at his fever-bright eyes and flu-weakened stance, and softly explained, "Dicky, you shouldn't be out of bed, honey, especially not out in the cold night. You could become sicker, like some of the children who have come to the clinic."

Dick looked at Leslie with an expression of determination. "But... I'm not so sick anymore! And if Joker kills anyone else because Batman... Bruce... has to stay at home with me, then it'll be MY fault they died. And I don't want to be the reason somebody died!"

"It wouldn't be your fault, Dick," said Batman. "It would be the Joker's."

"It _would_ be my fault if you weren't allowed to stop him because of _me_!" Dick exclaimed, fixing his eyes on his guardian. He grasped Batman by the arm and held onto it defensively. "And don't say you're gonna take Bruce away from me, Dr. Leslie! I won't live with anybody else but Bruce and Alfred! They're the only ones who understand!"

"Bruce," said Leslie, looking the cowled man in the face, "it's your choice, but Dick can't stay here. I'm sorry. We're overrun and understaffed, and I've already spent too much time away from my patients, children sicker than yours due to lack of care and heat in their homes."

Batman bent down and picked up the boy. "Let's go, Dick."

"Where?" the boy asked.

"Home."

The Batman exited by the private door and was gone.

Inside the Batmobile, Batman secured Dick's safety harness and started the car's powerful engine. He pulled away from the Thompkins Clinic.

"We're not _really_ goin' home, are we?" asked Dick.

"Yes."

"But we don't have to. We can go get the Joker now."

"_We_ are going home, and _you_ are going back to bed. I won't risk having you taken away, Dick."

"What do you do with your car while you go chase the bad guys, Batman?"

Batman cast a glance at the boy. "Park it."

"So... park the car... with me in it. I'll stay in the car, and you can go get the Joker. You can leave the heater on, and I'll just go to sleep here. I won't touch any of the controls or even listen to the radio."

"Leave you in the car alone? Chum, I believe there are laws about things like that."

"And there's no laws about wearin' a mask and beatin' up bad guys when you're not a real cop?"

"Don't go there."

"I'll be okay. Bruce, I don't want anyone else to get hurt. I know you're the only one who can stop this guy. An' I won't tell if you won't tell. Please?... partner?"

* * *

The last time Batman had put the Joker away in Arkham Asylum, the maniacal clown had pulled off a robbery of an arena the night of a well-publicized boxing match. As a diversion, he had murdered the two main-event fighters by poisoning their water supplies. In the ensuing pandemonium, the Joker stormed the box-office and made off with several hundred thousand dollars in ticket and legal wager receipts, all cash. The stolen booty had never been recovered after the Joker's arrest, and the Batman was certain the madman was now on his way to claim his long-awaited payday.

The Batman had narrowed the possible locations of the stash to three places he had known the Joker to hole-up on occasion. He had placed motion detectors at each one as well as tiny transmitting monitors. And now he was receiving activity at one of the three locations. 

The Batmobile pulled into an alley a block away from the Joker's lair. The Batman reached behind the seats and took a few items out of storage compartments, handing them to Dick.

"Here's a bottle of water. And if you feel sick to your stomach, use this bag. You _don't_ get out of the car for _any_ reason. You got that?"

Dick nodded his head obediently.

"If you have to pee, do it in this container. This thing here is a communicator that will reach me, but _only_ in a life or death situation. You understand?"

Dick nodded again.

"Okay. The heater is on. When I leave the car, I'll set the locks and security system, including the shields. You'll still be able to open the door from the inside, but you _won't_, will you?"

Dick shook his head.

"Your seat reclines with this button here. Here's a blanket... now take a nap. I'll be back... when I'm finished."

The door slammed, and Dick heard a series of clicking noises as the car's shielding fell into place. The windows and windshield darkened as louvered panels covered them. Dick could still see out through slits between the louvers. Everything became very quiet, and the alley's only light came from the moon high above.

Dick looked at all the little illuminated knobs and buttons and display panels, but he didn't dare touch anything. For all he knew, he'd hit an ejector button like in the James Bond movies and go flying out the top of the car. He was sure Batman's car had an ejector seat because it was the coolest ride in the world, but Dick wasn't about to touch stuff to find out. Before long, weariness overtook him, and Dick fell sound asleep.

* * *

[ End Part Two ]


	3. Chapter 3 of 3

* * *

©January 2003  
Rating: PG  
Characters: Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson  
Timeframe: This story follows my earlier stories "Jealousy" and "A Christmas of Beginnings" in continuity.  
Disclaimer: Characters herein are owned by DC Comics/Time Warner/AOL. No profit is realized from creation of stories based on these trademarked characters. Not to be archived without permission.  
Comments and feedback are welcome to SKHwrite@cranky-dog.com. Many thanks to editor Jill. 

* * *

**_Parenthood_**

By SKH

* * *

  
_Part Three_

The Joker discovered too late that his hiding place had been bugged by the Bat. He was far from concerned, though. After his most recent stretch in Arkham, he was more than ready to do a little dance with ol' Pointy-Ears.

With his satchel stuffed with cash, the Joker now armed himself with some of his favorite toys, which he had squirreled away with the loot.

"Come to Daddy!" he cackled, loading every pocket with "party favors" and firearms.

The Joker dashed up the flight of steps leading from the utility loft of an old gaming company warehouse to its roof. The moment he burst through the door, the Joker suddenly went flying across the gritty rooftop, his money satchel tumbling ahead of him. Skidding to a stop, he saw his henchman sitting a few feet away, rubbing his jaw.

"Twinkle, twinkle, little bat..." the Joker cackled. Lightning-fast, he flipped over, pulling a semi-automatic handgun from his jacket pocket. He fired until the clip was spent, strafing the direction from which he had fallen. He got a glimpse of a fluttering black cape before the gun was torn from his hand by one of those irritating batarangs.

"No cheating... come out into the open and fight like a Bat!" The Joker got to his feet, palming toys and squinting through the moonlight for his favorite playmate.

"Give it up, Joker," Batman's voice boomed from the shadows. "Your stale jokes are beginning to bore me."

"I've missed you, too, Batsy," the clown grinned. "Here!" He tossed a handful of marbles at the shadows, while behind his back he released a small, mechanical wind-up bird.

Batman sidestepped the marbles, leaping out of the shadow and into the silvery light. The marbles were... just marbles. Not weapons. However, the little mechanical bird flew over the Batman's head and exploded, sending strangling strings of confetti snaking around the caped crusader.

Before the Batman could free his arms and legs of the constricting paper bindings, the Joker skipped up to him and held out a hand-puppet shaped like a nun with boxing gloves on.

"You've been a very bad Bat. Say two Hail Mary's. One... Two!"

On "Two," the little nun punched Batman in the cheek, sending a jolt of electricity through his body.

Before the Joker could deliver another punishing jolt, he spun around at the sound of footsteps running across the rooftop.

"Bob?" the Joker called out. "Bob, are you LEAVING me?"

Indeed, "Bob," the henchman, had scooped up the satchel of money and was now running away as fast as he could. Bob leaped the narrow alley to the next building. The Joker stalked after him, pulling a long-barreled blunderbuss out of his trousers and aiming it at the fleeing Bob.

"I can see I went swimming in the wrong labor pool," the Joker deadpanned, sighting up his target. He fired once, striking Bob dead in the back. Both Bob and the satchel went flying over the edge of the roof at the far end of the building.

The Joker returned to the stunned Batman, bending down to leer in his face. "Wish I could stay longer, but I have to dash. Taa!" With another jolting punch from the nun-puppet, the Joker vanished, leaving Batman writhing in pain.

* * *

Oblivious to the cold and menacing darkness that defined Gotham City, Dick slept deeply, nestled warmly inside the armor-covered Batmobile.

A tremendous crash and jarring shudder jolted Dick out of his sleep. Confused and alarmed, he looked at the windshield. Through the louvers covering it, he saw a face. Peering closer, Dick saw that it was a man and that his eyes were wide open. Blood flowed from the man's nose and forehead, oozing between the armored louvers. The man looked dead.

Dick threw himself back into his seat and screamed. In his fevered panic, he scrabbled for the door latch, opened it, and shot out of the car, slamming the door behind him. Dick ran until he reached an alcove several yards down the alley from the Batmobile. Panting little white puffs of vapor, Dick peered around the edge of the alcove. The cold stung his hands and ears. His gloves and knit cap were locked in the car. Where the dead guy was. Dick pulled his parka hood up over his head and then pushed his hands into his pockets.

Batman was gonna be mad. Really mad. Dick knew he wasn't supposed to get out of the car, but he wasn't thinking about that when he saw that dead guy. Dick shuddered from the cold and general weakness caused by the flu. His legs were suddenly very tired and shaky, and his stomach was all churny again. As long as he was in trouble anyway, Dick decided he would just sit down, stay out of the wind, and wait for Batman to get back. He hoped it wouldn't be long. It was awfully cold, and he felt so bad, and that dead guy was on the car.

* * *

The Joker rounded the corner of the building Bob had fallen off of. His satchel of loot was around here somewhere. So was Bob, but he was no good for a laugh anymore. But....

"Hold the phone... what DO we have here?" Joker chortled. He sauntered up to the Batmobile, beside which lay his satchel. "Bob, you make a great hood ornament!" the grim clown declared. Picking up his case of money, the Joker backed away from the Batman's armor-plated vehicle. Taking a pair of silvery, baseball-sized orbs from another pocket, the Joker rolled them toward the Batmobile. As they stopped beneath the car, the Joker spun on his heels and started walking away, cackling hysterically as he went.

The Batmobile exploded with a blinding flash and deafening roar, raining debris through the alley.

In the alcove some 20 yards away, Dick jumped and clapped his hands over his ears at the noise. Eyes wide and mouth agape, all he could do was stare in disbelief.

After Batman had freed himself from the Joker's confetti-bondage, he had taken off after the madman. Easily vaulting the narrow gap between buildings, he was in hot pursuit when a deafening explosion and massive fireball rose up out of the alley next to the building. With his heart in his throat, Batman ran to the edge of the building and looked over. A wordless horror gripped his chest milliseconds before white-hot rage erupted inside him.

The Joker froze at the guttural howl behind him. Turning quickly, every sight faded from view as the all-consuming shadow of the Bat swallowed the night. The Clown Prince of Crime saw only bits of the chest emblem, a snarl of white teeth, the massive fist, and then a red cloud of stars.

Again and again the Batman's fists pounded the white face bloody. The Joker never had a chance to defend himself after that first punch. The Dark Knight slammed the murderous clown against a brick wall. The Joker sank to the ground and was then hoisted high into the air. Batman stood poised to ram the clown against his knee, intending to break the killer in half.

Dick watched in amazement as the Batman swooped down from the roof. But when his guardian started beating the Joker mercilessly, Dick realized that Batman believed he was in the car, that he'd been blown up! Dick got to his feet and ran as fast as he could down the alley. He was afraid Batman would... might... 

"Batman, NO! Stop it! Here I am! I'm okay!" Dick shouted as he tugged on the swirling black cape. "Put him down, Batman. I'm not dead! I got out of the car when the dead man fell on it!"

With the broken and bleeding psychopath raised over his head, Batman looked down at the pleading boy. Dick's words pierced the dark rage that enveloped him, and he slowly lowered the Joker to the ground.

"You got out of the car," Batman repeated, as if trying to grasp the concept.

"Yeah, I got out of the car. I know you said not to, but I got scared. I'd say I'm sorry, but..." Dick turned his head toward the smoking chassis of the Batmobile, "...but maybe that wasn't such a bad idea after all."

"You got out of the car." Batman's knees turned to jelly, and he sank to the ground. He gestured with a beckoning of his fingers for Dick to come closer. When the boy did, Batman carefully pulled Dick into a light hug.

"You okay, Batman?" Dick whispered, hugging back.

"I am now," the Dark Knight replied.

"Can we go home now?" Dick asked, his voice now betraying his fatigue.

"Yes."

"How? The car's blown to smithereens."

"We have other transportation. It'll be here very soon." Batman removed his cape and wrapped it around Dick's shoulders, giving the boy some additional warmth.

"Hey, my own cape," Dick smiled.

"I don't think that's your color, but it'll do for now." Batman returned the smile.

* * *

Commissioner James Gordon stood next to the unlit Bat-Signal on the roof of the Gotham City Police Department's main headquarters. He'd gotten a call from the vigilante, saying that the Joker had been neutralized and to meet him on the rooftop. Gordon pulled his overcoat tighter against the frigid wind that blew stiffly across the top of the building.

Gordon turned out of the wind, hunching his shoulders and cupping his hands to light a cigarette. When he straightened up, James Gordon jumped back with a shout. His cigarette dropped from his hand. Hanging upside down in front of him was the Joker, bloodied and bound, suspended by a slender rope. Gordon looked up to see a hovering shadow, that wing-shaped aircraft that Batman sometimes used. The line went suddenly slack, and the Joker dropped to the rooftop at Gordon's feet. When the Commissioner looked up again, the strange craft was gone.

* * *

As soon as Dick was in the seat of the Batwing, what was left of his energy melted away. He wanted to stay awake and look out the window of the Batman's plane, but his body had other ideas. Fever, the aftermath of the excitement, and overwhelming fatigue drew Dick down into an immediate slumber.

Batman notified his "ground crew," the father-daughter automotive team that had built the Batmobile for him, requesting that they recover what was left of the vehicle. They had a prototype of a new machine for him, and he'd test it out... as soon as Alfred returned.

A short time later, Bruce Wayne tucked his young ward into the boy's bed. Dick had barely awakened long enough to take his medicine before dropping off again. Bruce left Dick's room just to shower and change, and then he returned to sit vigil beside his little partner. Deep in thought, Bruce watched over the boy. Were they wise, the plans he had? Tonight, Bruce had endangered Dick's life, regardless of the boy's selfless courage and loyalty. Leslie was right to question Bruce's — the Batman's — motives. 

And yet... there was no mistaking the fact that Dick was no ordinary child — bright, a quick study, with a physical agility that most adults would never achieve. And tonight, Dick had refused to let Batman cross a line that had taunted the boy since his parents' deaths, tortured him nightly in his dreams... to kill out of revenge.

Tonight, Bruce had realized just how much Dick had come to mean to him. Like it or not, parenthood had snuck up on Bruce and grabbed him by the heartstrings. Bruce had a feeling he'd be wrestling with the concept for a long time.

* * *

_**Epilogue**_

Alfred Pennyworth returned to Wayne Manor on a Sunday afternoon, five days after he had left. He set his luggage down in the foyer, his ears attuned for the sounds of his charges. Curiously noting the absence of Masters Bruce and Dick, Alfred hung up his overcoat and garment bag, placing his suitcase in the closet for later retrieval.

Hearing a faint clatter coming from the direction of the kitchen, Alfred followed the sound to its source. Half-expecting to see Master Bruce muddling through unaccustomed domestic chores, Alfred was surprised to see young Dick ably navigating through the kitchen. Sporting a bib apron that came down to his shins, Dick stood on a small stool, attending to a pot on the stove. The major-domo cleared his throat, and the boy's head whipped around, a smile blossoming on his face.

"Alfred! You're home!"

Dick jumped down from the stool and nearly tackled the older man, who prudently removed the dripping spoon from the boy's hand.

"Yes, I've just arrived. My, my, I thought you were ill, Master Dick. You look quite recovered. I'm so sorry, lad, that I had to be away while you weren't feeling well."

Dick looked up at his friend. "That's okay, Alfred. Bruce took good care of me. I'm sorry about your cousin. Bruce told me." Dick gave Alfred another hug, this time out of condolence.

"Thank you, lad. It was a sad occasion, but a good visit with family. And speaking of family, where is Master Bruce?"

Dick's blue eyes widened. "Oh! The soup!" He ran back to the stove and turned off the burner. "I'm makin' him some lunch!"

Alfred raised an inquisitive eyebrow as Dick filled a bowl with what appeared to be chicken noodle soup. The boy dashed around the corner into the pantry and returned with a tea cart. He carefully transferred the bowl of soup to the cart, next to a folded paper towel with several saltine crackers on it. Dick added a spoon to his arrangement and looked up at Alfred.

"C'mon. Bruce'll be glad to see you."

Alfred followed the boy, his curiosity growing as they bypassed Master Bruce's study, where Alfred had expected his employer to be, and Dick steered the cart into the lift.

"Master Bruce is taking his meal upstairs?" Alfred asked, still arching his brow with intrigue.

"Yup, since yesterday. He's got the flu."

The lift stopped, and Dick pushed the little cart down the hall to the master bedroom. "Wake up, Bruce. Lunch is ready, and I got a surprise for you!"

A guttural moan emanated from the large, four-poster bed as a shock of black hair emerged from beneath the satin comforter. A bloodshot blue eye cracked open, then widened, and a haggard Bruce Wayne attempted to sit up.

"Alfred!" Bruce croaked. "You're home!" Bruce's voice, gravelly from illness, was nonetheless filled with relief.

"Just in time, too, I see," the older man smiled. Alfred helped Bruce sit up, then plumped and arranged the pillows before easing his eldest back into their softness. Bruce's unshaven face took on an expression of beatitude. 

Alfred felt Bruce's forehead, then the back of his neck, and clucked his disapproval. Shaking the crackers off the paper towel, Alfred tucked the make-shift napkin into the top of Bruce's pajamas, then picked up the bowl of soup and the spoon.

"Alfred, you're not allowed to go away again," Bruce rasped, accepting the spoonful of hot chicken soup.

Dick carefully climbed up onto the massive bed and stretched out on his belly, casually bumping his slippers together as he watched Alfred do what he did best — take care of him and Bruce.

"Indeed, I shall not, my boy. My _boys_."

[ The End ]

* * *


End file.
